


fighting fire with firewood

by likecharity



Category: Weeds
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn't pretend that she's anybody else. There wouldn't be any point. It makes his stomach twist, but he needs it. He's needed it for a long time. A physical expulsion of everything that he feels for her, all of it; the hatred and resentment, love and want. In that sense it feels fucking incredible, but in every other, it's the worst thing in the world.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	fighting fire with firewood

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I don't know. THEY'VE BEEN GIVING OFF CERTAIN VIBES LATELY. I don't really have an excuse. Title from Bloc Party's 'One Month Off'.

They're arguing again. Of course. Walking back to Heylia's from the crop and recycling the same old fight, yelling at each other until it hurts too much and then yelling some more. Quickly, Silas grows tired, sick of trying to reason with her. It's fucking useless. Her brain doesn't seem to understand logic anymore and she's refusing even to _attempt_ to sympathize with him.

"You know what?" he spits out, pushing past her and going on ahead, not looking back. "I am done trying to have this conversation. Just—fuck you. _Fuck_ you."

Nancy stops abruptly, and he does too, as though they're joined by some invisible wire. He looks back at her. She has her arms folded, and the expression on her face is almost akin to amusement. "Fuck me?" A pause. There is a thunderstorm coming—they can hear it rumbling in the distance as it makes its way to them. Nancy rolls her tongue over her lips, glancing off into the woods for a moment before looking back at him. "Is that what you want?"

"What?" Silas asks sharply.

She raises her eyebrows at him, shrugs. "What? You wanna get it out of your system?"

"Nancy..." Her name still doesn't come naturally to him, feels foreign on his lips, but he doesn't like calling her _Mom_ anymore. He's tired, so tired of this—of her games, of her inability to confront the real issue. 

The thunder grows louder. Closer.

"Silas," she counters, mocking him, rolling her eyes. "What, Shane's the only one who ever thought about it? Bullshit. You're just better at keeping secrets. But I know you."

Silas flushes hotly, covers his shame with anger. "That's your solution?" he lashes out. He's dumbfounded. "What, break one rule, break 'em all—that's how this family works, right? You are so fucked up it's _unbelievable_. Every time I think you can't sink any fucking lower, you do."

She shrugs, one-shouldered, kicking at the dirt with the toe of her boot. "I'm not your mother anymore, am I?" she snaps, looking up at him with an almost fierce expression. "You don't want me to be." Her voice turns scathing. "No, you want to be _partners_. Equals, right? No boundaries, right? So let's do it. Come on. What's stopping us?"

She's holding out her arms in an exaggerated gesture, offering herself to him. God, he can no longer tell when she's bluffing. 

"Fuck me," she says, like it's nothing. Impatient, raising her voice. "I'm giving you your chance. Come on. Fuck me."

Silas just stares at her in disbelief, and she heaves a sigh. She reaches down to hitch up her skirt a little, yanks down her panties and then stands there before him with them tangled at her feet. Raindrops are beginning to spatter the dirt, and he watches them begin to soak through the silky fabric that's caught around one spiked heel of her boot. He's shirtless and the cool rain feels good on his bare skin—the day has been hot, heavy, aching with the approaching storm. 

He looks up at his mother. Her arms are folded and she looks defiant, daring him. A bolt of lightning cracks the sky open. She's not bluffing.

He storms at her, furious. Angry at the notion that she might tease him with this, and angrier still at the fact that she might actually be _serious_. Could it really be that this is something she sees no issue with? Has she become _that_ far removed from reality? He can't stand it. Anger roils in his belly and his kiss is like a slap to the face: brutal, bruising. Catching her off guard. She stumbles back, grabs hold of a tree for support. He screws his eyes shut, grabs a fistful of her damp hair.

Distantly, he thinks that Shane would probably kill for this. Hell, he killed for less.

She is surprisingly responsive, recovering quickly from the shock and reaching up to cradle his cheek in her hand. His eyes sting and he feels sick, and he kisses her, hard, the way he never let himself admit he wanted to. And she lets him.

"Silas," she breathes, when their lips part a little. She takes his face with both of her hands, trying to slow things down. Her fingers slip on his skin; the rain is coming down heavy now. She looks into his eyes, searching for her son, and he shrugs her off, reaching down and pulling up her skirt until it's around her waist. He exposes her, and it almost feels good. Satisfying.

For a moment, he does nothing but stare, stare for so long that she begins to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. That feels good, too.

"Silas..." she pleads.

"What?" he snaps, his own tone surprising him. "What, you want me to touch you? You're that fuckin' desperate for any kind of human contact that you want your own son's hand on your cunt?" He spits the words out, disgusted and disgusting.

She's visibly stung, trying to hide it but there are tears welling up in her eyes. He doesn't even feel guilty. She quirks an eyebrow, juts her chin. No words come out of her mouth, but her eyes say _do it_ , and he won't back down if she won't. He thrusts his hand between her thighs, closing in on her. Stares her down, fingers curling. There is a swell between his own legs soon after, painful and pressing. She can't look at him as he reaches down to unzip himself, her head rolling back against the tree trunk, eyes falling closed.

Shorts and boxers pooled around his ankles, he brings her in towards him. She looks at him through slitted eyes, challenging, her head still back. Her cheeks are pink and speckled with rain, and she looks beautiful, and he can't quite hate her. Not fully. But he wants to break her down. He doesn't believe it, that this is easy for her, that prison could really have deadened her this way. Every single one of his nerves is tingling, and he's trembling, and he can't stand that she seems so unfazed. Just waiting, patiently.

He rolls his hips and her eyelids flutter. A tiny victory.

"You want me to fuck you?" he sneers, slicking over her. He's full, hot and needy, barely able to contain himself. She's not looking at him like she used to, there's no softness in her eyes. She went away and he grew up without her. He's a man, now, and it's like she's only just noticed.

"You want to fuck me," she half-laughs, like she's blameless. Always like she's blameless. "For so long now, right? Little boy with an Oedipus complex."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" he murmurs, leaning right in 'til he feels her hot breath on his face. Her scent no longer reminds him of comfort, of home. She smells like hot metal and dirt. "Didn't exactly raise me right, did you?"

His teeth graze her cheek as his words sting her, and then he turns her around, pushes her face-first against the trunk of the tree. He hooks his hands around her thighs, pulls her back towards him, and her fingernails catch on bark as he slides right in, one swift thrust, deep. Burning. It feels good, awful.

For a moment they are silent. The leaves rustle as the rain hammers down on them, masking the slap of flesh on flesh. Silas's teeth dig into his lip to stop him making a sound. He doesn't want her to know how this feels for him.

Nancy reaches behind her, her hand finding the cut of his shoulder down to his bicep, his skin glistening in the rain. He shudders with the touch. Her hands are cold.

"I always liked that you worked out," she says, almost fucking conversational, voice sugary-sweet. The only giveaway is the tiny shudders of her breath as Silas moves, as she's rocked against the trunk of the tree. "Like Lars," she goes on, dragging the words out lazily, "all muscle. Not like Judah, no. He tried, but he was always a skinny thing. You should be thankful for those genes."

He knows she's just trying to rile him up, but it fucking _works_. He fucks her even harder, rubbing raw. He presses his thumb into the stupid U-turn tattoo on her ass, digs in his nail. 

"You fuck like him, too." It's almost gasped out; she's breathless.

Silas inhales sharply, grabbing tightly at her hips. He feels ill, thinking of Lars. "You're so fucked up," he chokes out, and there are tears in his eyes.

He swallows back the lump in his throat and stares down at her—where they meet, where her skirt is crumpled around her waist, where her soaked tank top clings to her back and her wet hair sticks in messy tendrils. He doesn't pretend that she's anybody else. There wouldn't be any point. It makes his stomach twist, but he needs it. He's needed it for a long time. A physical expulsion of everything that he feels for her, all of it; the hatred and resentment, love and want. In that sense it feels fucking incredible, but in every other, it's the worst thing in the world. They won't recover from this, he knows that. They'll never be like they were. But as long as they're _something_ , perhaps it doesn't even matter.

She begins to rock back against him, a little half-sob breaking its way up out of her throat. He can't tell if she's crying, or moaning for more. No one really can, with Nancy. Her hand has slipped from his arm and she's clutching at the trunk of the tree again, the bark smearing dust onto her palms. The movement of her hips is mechanical, and he's getting closer. He doesn't bother trying to hold out, just leans down over her and rides through it, mouthing wordlessly at her back, her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her drenched hair. He can't tell if he's crying; everything is wet. It's only when he sees the scarlet streak of blood across her pale skin that he even realises he's bitten open the skin of his lip.

He stays inside, trying to catch his breath. It sounds hysterical. If she's making any noise at all, he can't hear it. He slowly becomes aware of things; the cold cling of skin against skin, dripping fabric, the way he's wrapped himself around her and is clutching her so tight. He makes himself let go, straighten up. The rain is easing off, and the smell of wet earth and marijuana is palpable. Somewhere in the distance is the dry smoky heat of a bonfire. As Silas's breathing returns to normal, he can make out the sound of frogs and insects and birds in the woods around them. 

And Nancy, too, is making noise. Almost wailing. Her knees buckle and she drops to the floor like one of Shane's stupid marionettes getting its strings cut. Crumpled in the dirt with mud on her knees. Silas goes down after her, automatic, and they clumsily find their way into each other's arms. She sobs openly into his bare shoulder and he grasps desperately at her back, a constant clench and release of fists. Everything is wet, sodden. 

He thinks he hears himself say "Mom," in a broken sort of voice, choked out and raw, and she kisses his cheek and murmurs something, some soothing nonsense, until there's nothing left in them to cry out. Silas can taste the sharpness of blood on his tongue and he stifles his mouth against the skin of her neck. A moment ago he would have wanted to bite, but not now. Now he just wants to hold her, be held by her. It's a small comfort, but it's something. They cling.

They will not recover from this. He knows that.


End file.
